


Arsonist's Lullaby

by mikachan



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: 1930's mafia au, Arson, M/M, Police interrogation, and he's surprisingly wholesome, ciel has brown hair, ciels a skinny freckly troublemaker, sebastian is a big bad mafia man, tags and warnings will update as i write to avoid spoilers, title inspired by hozier, undertakers name is joe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-16
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-10-11 02:46:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17438447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mikachan/pseuds/mikachan
Summary: 'His chest swelled big and cracked with fury, eyes burning and blurring the image before him until the manor was nothing but a candle’s flame in the darkness of an empty room.'In which Ciel's first steps into adulthood start in flames and secrets. 1930's mafia AU, again another AU no one asked for but is stuck in my brain.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't posted anything in over a year, and for that I am somewhat sorry. The past year or so of my life has been full of things I don't regret experiencing, but I do resent the pain. I haven't been writing. It's hurt too much to do so, but I'm finally trying to get back up on my feet. To everyone who supported Infinite, and to those who continue to support Infinite, thank you so so so so much. Your continuous support, even years later has helped motivate me to not give up on writing. Maybe one day I'll change the characters' names and publish these things. Anyways, whether you're an old or a new reader, thank you for your interest. Chapter 1 coming soon!

Smoke billowed thick and tumultuous, puffing its chest into the star scattered sky like invasive ink on silk. Orange flames glinted onto wet pavement, cracking and screaming as they consumed the Phantomhives’ entire fortune. Two wide, blue eyes streamed putrid, angry tears as they watched their home evaporate into the night air. They belonged to the single heir of the family, a raunchy, ill-behaved boy. His knuckles and palms were bruised and bloody from pounding against the thick, oak door of his parent’s bedroom… lungs thick and hot with smoke. His navy colored silk pajamas were charred and disheveled, hanging off his body in thick strips of weak fabric. He sputtered, overwhelmed coughs and sobs coming out short and violent. 

He fell to his knees alone on the grass, brown hair falling as curls into his eyes. Dirt and charred grass collected underneath his fingernails and clung there like poison. Neighbors gathered around, helpless but to watch the theatrics being put on before them. A woman with curlers falling from her blonde hair said panicked to her husband, “run inside and call the department!” By the time sirens would be heard in the distance, the boy’s house would be nothing but ash. His chest swelled big and cracked with fury, eyes burning and blurring the image before him until the manor was nothing but a candle’s flame in the darkness of an empty room.

The whole street was gathered within the next moments, silent and mourning, witnessing the death of something none of them ever dreamed to own. Ciel witnessed the death of his childhood. He’d heard their screams through the door, watched the black figure emerge after he had freed himself of smoke, and flee like a speck into the darkness yonder, towing his inheritance in those filthy hands. A new, anxious secret blazed behind his temples, burning its self into his brain as he tried to absorb it. He could do nothing but run. And now he could do nothing but watch with the rest of the crowd, blood seeping beneath his fingernails and mingling with the ash with how tightly he squeezed his little fists.


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His voice softened and quieted, and with it the air stilled around them. Ciel was afraid to breathe lest he disturb the heavy quiet. Joseph’s eyes were sparkling bright like some distant constellation, and Ciel felt nothing but an observer; a little boy far far away on earth, watching, unable to reach. Somehow, it comforted him. He knew he could never touch that spark, could never alight it with his skin and burn it out to nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it took so long to update! I'm working really hard on making this story as quality as possible. I'm still not 100% happy, so I may go back and fix some things later, but for now I wanted to at least get this out.

500,000 dollars was a lot in 1936, more than anyone could afford to lose. It was his entire family’s fortune, his livelihood. He mulled this over in his mind as he sat in the uncomfortable metal chair provided for him. “And what exactly gives me reason to believe your story, kid?” Officer Walter Diedrich was a short, stocky man. A thick mustache ran the expanse of his upper lip, and when he spoke he permeated the air with the stench of alcohol. His slick, black hair shone in the light of the interrogation room, glinting like some unholy diamond, taunting Ciel into a fury. It looked greasy and evil. 

Ciel glared back at the man, thick curls spreading shadow across his freckled, upturned nose. He leaned his skinny torso over the desk, lanky arms moving to spread elegant fingers across the mahogany. “I didn’t do it.” His ocean eyes pierced through the dimly lit space between them, heavy and foreboding. His jaw set tight, he sneered as the man languidly lit a fag, drawing it to his lips. He tossed his lighter onto the table, and Ciel made a very large point not to flinch. He took a long drag. He blew the smoke out into the boy’s face.

It stung his eyes and burned his throat but he stood steady, eyes watering at the horrible smell. The officer scoffed, leaning back into his chair. The wood creaked in protest of his weight, and Ciel silently smirked at the thought of it splintering beneath him. “Given your history,” he took another drag, “I’ll believe that when I’m dead.” He chuckled, which then turned into a cough, which turned into a coughing fit. Ciel sat back down. He fantasized about the implications of what the officer had just said. 

“You can’t convict me for a murder I didn’t commit. Not without proof, officer.” He spit the last word like it was poison, crossing his arms over his chest, protecting his heart from feeling the grief he was aching to bury. Being accused of his own parents’ murder merely a day after its occurrence felt like losing. He had a good deal of fight trapped within that frail body of his. He was determined not to lose again. Not yet, at least. “You’re right on that account, boy.” Diedrich mumbled, “but we will find it, wherever the proof may be.”

“Why would I kill my own parents?” Ciel trailed off stiffly, eyes wandering to his lap, where his pale fingers clenched. His hands were chronically fists, it seemed. “Your parents were mighty rich. Wouldn’t put it past you to have gone and hid the money somewhere,” he droned. His accent gave him more attitude than he was worth, and Ciel felt his blood run hot, then cold, then hot again. When he replied it was burning and full of fervor, “on my birthday?” He squinted, “I saw the man who took the safe.”

Diedrich ignored his last remark completely. “Lucky for you it was on your birthday. Spared you the orphanage,” came the reply. Despite it being lazy, the boy saw how the edges of his brows twitched as he spoke. Ciel flicked his eyes up to him, and he found the air hazy, fetid. It made him sick, and he wanted to reach through the thickness of it and spit in the man’s smug face. “I’ve had enough of your smoke,” he whispered. He wished he could scream it at the man, flip the table into his face and shove the butt of his fag against his sweaty cheek. He wouldn’t, though. He’d been a good boy lately.

There was a long silence, wherein Diedrich continued to smoke, and Ciel continued to stare from behind his thick, dark eyelashes. He finally shattered the air like glass, voice thick, “you’re not even going to ask me about the man I saw?” Ciel was supposed to be answering questions as a witness. Now, he had become a suspect. The officer shook his head, turned his head and blew smoke into the light, “you ain’t seen no man, kid. You ain’t seen no man.” Ciel’s toes curled in his tightly laced boots. He could feel his stomach knotting. “Doesn’t matter anyways. Couldn’t see his face.” The frustration was evident in his voice, even as he tried to hold his sentiments tightly within the walls of his chest. He was afraid one day they might break lose, crack his ribs and burst out in thick, black blood. The cigarette was put out on the metal ashtray set neatly onto the desk. “Of course you couldn’t.” Rain began to pound distantly on the roof.

The sky outside was heavy with cold, cold rain and snow, gray and muted, bubbling clouds rolling through the high breeze. Joseph Walker followed him out into the mist, where the rain had stopped an hour or so prior. The December air was freezing on their cheeks, sticking the boy’s tears to his face. Joseph was another officer working for the Philadelphia Police Department, but beyond that he was a friend of the Phantomhives. He had known Ciel’s daddy since they were younger than he was now. “You best not run your scrawny ass away, now,” he called to him in that gentle, yet firm way he had about him. 

The officer had greyed early, leaving him with a wise appearance, and his shoulder length hair fluttered in the wind beneath his hat as he stared intently at the kid. Ciel turned to him, cheeks impossibly hot. “Now why’d you run out like that,” Joseph asked, “hm?” Ciel shook his head, wrapping his thick coat around himself tightly. “Questioning was over, why’s it matter?” He replied curtly. He squinted back at the man, heart pounding out of his little chest. It sounded like a death march, and it made him nervous. Joseph sighed. “You matter, kid. You matter. Especially in this case, as hard as it is you’ve got to keep that clever head of yours on your shoulders.”

The remark made something inside him ache, just as the strong gust of wind that came violent and short, shaking the trees around them and throwing their hair into their faces. It sounded shrill and unkind, and even the leaves shrieked in protest to it. Ciel stormed up to him, eyes as angry as the sky was, burning, begging to spill over. “I didn’t do it, Joe,” he hissed, and his scarf threatened to pull away into the air, lost to him forever. He looked level into the man’s yellow-brown eyes. They looked right back, and it reminded him of what the fire looked like, bright and destructive and calculating. 

This close, Ciel could see the man’s gentle, gray stubble that clung to his chin like the moss on river rocks. Despite his eyes being piercing and bright, they were kind, and the boy knew this. He searched them intently for some kind of incriminating glimmer, something to warrant the distrust he wanted so badly to cultivate. He found nothing… nothing but altruistic, clear waters. His own eyes blurred and he sniffed, catching his lip between his teeth. He wanted to devour his sob whole, consume it as if it were his last breath so that nothing, especially it, could hurt him. 

He choked, stare faltering as it fell to the ground, fixed onto the freshly polished toes of his shoes. His world turned distorted and bright, and over his lashes spilled fresh, plump tears. He looked back up to Joseph. He stomped on the ground with his little foot, frustrated with the hotness of his own tears. Words failed him. Instead, he allowed the quiver of his lip to speak the volumes he kept inside, waiting to burst out in anything but words. “I believe you.” Joe whispered softly, so softly that it sounded as though the wind picked it up and carried it away before it even reached the young boy’s ears. 

Ciel didn’t believe him, and he told him so, gesturing to the building behind the taller man, “everyone in there thinks I’m guilty. As long as they can reference my history, anyone will believe them.” His hopelessness was palpable. “So you made some mistakes as a kid, big whoop,” Joe threw his hands up, “I know who you are. You know who you are.” Ciel stared him down awhile longer, something sticky and thick blocking his throat. “Your father would be so proud of you, son.” Ciel scoffed, arms tensing and stinging eyes flaring.

He hadn’t slept since the fire, marched into the police station at the crack of dawn. He wanted to turn away, run back to his warm bed. “Look, I’m sorry. You know what I mean, kid.” He was suddenly and painfully aware that he had no home to turn back to. He had no warm bed, only ash and dust and fog. He felt as though he were floating through a great expanse of space, with nothing but stars and emptiness to keep him company. His numb feet dragged him over to one of many cold, metal benches stationed along the street. It made his thighs ache. Joe made himself at home next to him, shielding him from the awful wind that was incessantly swirling. 

“Joe,” Ciel droned, and the officer’s confusing eyes met his in an instant, “I have nowhere to stay.” Jospeh nodded, “I know. You’re gonna stay with me for awhile. Is that alright?” Ciel wanted to sob. He wanted to sob big and hard and painful. He had nothing. He had nothing to bring with him and worse, he had nothing to give Joe. “I-I don’t have any mon-“ he was shushed a moment later, “the arrangements have been made.” He winked, smiled, and the wrinkles around his eyes became apparent to Ciel. He’d never looked close enough before.

Joe’s house was small and quaint, nestled among a small neighborhood on the outskirts of the city. The windows were shrouded with dainty curtains, lacy and fresh, and beyond them stood two, mature oak trees. Inside it smelled of new citrus and soap. Joe was a clean man, and Ciel knew this, but he’d never stepped foot into his home in the many years his family had known him. Rachel and Vincent Phantomhive were marvelous party throwers, and frequently held galas and events in their home. Ciel was used to his own family hosting; nights filled with sparkling champagne and the way his Mama’s earrings sparkled in the moonlight outside. Her smile always followed. Joe had been over enough times that he found it almost strange to step humbly through the doorway. 

“I know it isn’t much,” Joe muttered, taking his hat off and placing it on the rack by the door. His hair was frizzed and mussed beneath it, and he reached up to nervously smooth it down with his palms. “It was my parent’s house. When they passed I couldn’t bear to see it sold to someone else, so I bought it.” He stepped around Ciel to survey the entryway. Upon further inspection Ciel noticed the bright yellow wallpaper, faded but not yet peeling, and the soft white molding that bordered the walls and doorways. “It’s really nice, Joe,” he said, and he meant it. He hoped the older man would hear the sincerity in his voice and not take it as one of us usual quips.

Looking further into the house Ciel saw the old mahogany coffee table, the matching pale yellow couch, and the hallway that stretched out to his right. To his left, the kitchen was dark and quiet, but he could make out the faint shapes of a nice, sturdy dining table and chairs. “It’s really nice.” Joe smiled, a now confident hand coming up to run through his hair, “thank you, little Phantomhive. It needed some work when it fell into my hands, but she’s a real nice place if I do say so myself.” His voice softened and quieted, and with it the air stilled around them. Ciel was afraid to breathe lest he disturb the heavy quiet. Joseph’s eyes were sparkling bright like some distant constellation, and Ciel felt nothing but an observer; a little boy far far away on earth, watching, unable to reach. Somehow, it comforted him. He knew he could never touch that spark, could never alight it with his skin and burn it out to nothing.


End file.
